


Hiding an Injury

by blazingsnark



Category: Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: Gen, let's dig into some Good Old Fashioned Character Trauma, ship not technically There but tagged in case you wanna avoid even mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21656653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blazingsnark/pseuds/blazingsnark
Summary: When you try to tell NPCs you killed Almalexia, they don't believe you.  How horrible must that feel?Originally written for TESblr OC Angst and Fluff Week.
Relationships: Indoril Almalexia/Indoril Neverar
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	Hiding an Injury

**Author's Note:**

> If I had a dollar for every fic I posted on Tumblr that I forgot to cross-post to Ao3... I'd have at least seven dollars.

“I murdered Almalexia.”

Nobody wants to hear those words. But Arafel wants to say them.

To the Dunmer of Morrowind, Almalexia was a goddess - kind, gentle, having earned the name of “Healing Mother” through her own actions. But to Arafel-

To Nerevar-

When she admits, “I murdered Almalexia,” people spit. People turn away. People think she’s a madwoman, no matter if Nerevar’s gold is shimmering in her irises or if they’re plain Dunmer red. Almalexia is a god; how can you kill a god?

It’s a cornerclub in Ald’ruhn where she ends up drinking. Not in the Council Club - no, that’s a good place to be seen, and Arafel doesn’t want to be seen. She hunches in a corner of the Rat In A Pot, a glass of sujamma half-drunk before her, and heats her finger to char Daedric lettering into the chitin table.  _ A <-> N _ . Nerevar? Nerevarine? Good question. Arafel takes another drink.

“You look like a woman with something on her mind,” someone murmurs. A warm body slips into the seat beside her. The other person waves over the bartender, orders a drink. Arafel’s glass is filled again.

Her eyes burn. She covers them with a hand, not sure if the burn is tears or Nerevar’s spirit welling to the fore.

“I killed my wife,” she murmurs.

The person recoils - but it’s a normal recoil, a recoil from a murderer, not a recoil from a crazy person. The words keep falling from Arafel’s tongue.

“I mean- she killed my best friend. She was going to try and kill me, too. Fought me and everything- gave me this,” she says, and scrabbles at the sleeve of her robe, pushes it up, shows the healing cut-and-starburst mark where Hopesfire’s edge bit and lightning struck. “But. She’s my  _ wife _ , y’know?”

She’s babbling. The person has already left, their cup of mazte untouched on the table. Arafel blinks after their retreating back, then slams the mazte and goes back to nursing her sujamma, fresh loss in her chest.

But “wife” is a better descriptor than “Almalexia”. When she says “I killed my wife” to people, there are noises of horror, but not outright derision for her wound. It’s even better when she changes to, “My wife is dead,” or “My wife went mad and tried to kill me.” After a year, the story is polished over the injury, the expected response being a sympathetic hum from the other person and some Tribunal-approved platitude about “the House of Troubles tests us all.”

Well. It’s not the _Tri_ bunal anymore _._

Because Nerevar’s wife is dead. She killed his best friend, and she tried to kill the Nerevarine too.

But nobody wants to hear that, now do they?


End file.
